Cuddling
by ClassyGirlsWearPearls
Summary: Cuddling was one of Sherlock's favorite aspects of his relationship with John.


**Cuddling**

Cuddling was one of Sherlock's favorite things about being with John. Physical contact was shockingly comforting to him all the time, and he knew exactly how to capitalize on John's emotions and earn himself a snuggle. Sometimes, when he was in the middle of a mind boggling case, he would flop down on the couch and shout out something along the lines of "It's staring right at me and I can't figure out what it is." Other times, he would be bored out of his skull because Lestrade was being difficult and wouldn't give him an interesting case and would threaten to shoot the wall again. Then there were times where his mood was more moderate and he just wanted to be close to John. No matter what the situation was, Sherlock had figured out a way to get John on their couch or in bed for a cuddle, and perhaps something more depending on whether or not there was a case.

John would always sit himself down at the far end of the couch and would pat the cushion next to him. After some huffing and puffing, Sherlock would flop down and lean against John's chest with his legs slightly bent and stretching out over the rest of the couch. John's arm (usually his right) would wrap comfortingly around Sherlock's shoulders and would stroke his arm lightly and slowly. Sherlock could never help himself. He always would let out a content sigh and would snuggle deeper into John. John would hold him tighter and begin to run his left hand through Sherlock's hair and gently massage his scalp until he was practically purring.

It would never take long after that to finally get to Sherlock's favorite part of the routine. John would swing both of his legs up onto the couch and would rest his back against the armrest. Sherlock would lie in between John's legs with his head resting around John's diaphragm. John would then proceed to rub Sherlock's scalp, lightly scratch it occasionally, and run his fingers gently through the floppy mass of dark curls on his head. Sherlock would continue purring and his mind would quiet so him boredom wasn't nearly as tedious or he could focus on the case at hand better. In appreciation, he would stroke and rub John's shins and knees.

The cuddles could end many different ways. Sherlock would occasionally gasp, and then he would slide down the couch and stand up, finally pressing a kiss to John's lips and rattling off who the killer was or where they needed to go for their next clue. Sometimes, he would simply turn around and being kissing John, doing so until they ended up in their bedroom. Other times, he would just fall asleep, and John would wrap his arms around his chest and fall asleep too, cradling him until he was finally ready to wake up again.

Unless they were in bed, where John was "little spoon" because of his smaller stature, John rarely was cuddled rather than cuddling. He didn't mind. He loved the physical contact and the way Sherlock reacted to his ministrations. Occasionally, though, he needed to be held and to relinquish control of the situation. It didn't happen often, but he always loved it when it did.

The first time John was cuddled, it was a little over three months since they had started dating. He had quickly perfected his cuddling routine with Sherlock and was more than happy to repeat it two or three times a day at a minimum. This particular day was much different.

John had recently taken a job at a hospital not too far from Baker Street. He was working in the Emergency department and would occasionally have to scrub up at a moment's notice and perform emergency surgery. This wasn't something that he minded. In fact, he'd taken the job in order to regain some of the thrill he'd felt in Afghanistan. Of course, war is marred with tragedy, and a hospital is a constant war zone where there are bound to be tragedies from time to time. That day had been one of those days.

It was pouring outside. The bad weather always brought in more patients than there usually were, but today was different. Everywhere John turned, there seemed to be ten patients waiting to have something patched up. The Triage nurses were nearly pulling their hair out because of the sheer volume of people coming through. John was doing his best to remain calm and level headed for the sake of everyone around him, and he was working at warp speed in order to cut the waiting time for everyone. He silently thanked the Army for preparing him for days like today, where you had to move quickly because doctors and nurses were in short supply and there were a lot of people who were injured. He shuddered after thinking that. It was tragic.

Around 3:30 in the afternoon, they got a call about a four year old boy who was being rushed in. He had been hit by a car that had taken a turn too fast and hydroplaned onto the curb they were waiting at as he and his mother were walking home from daycare. A surgical team was immediately assembled and John began to scrub up. He caught a glimpse of the boy as he was wheeled into the Operating Room. He wasn't in good shape, but John would stand in that OR for days if it meant saving someone's life. He inhaled deeply and backed into the room, where he promptly began to decide what exactly needed to be done there.

The boy, Oliver, had a lot of internal injuries. The anesthesiologist was about to put him under when he flat lined. One of the nurses – Andrea? He still hadn't learned everybody's names yet. – quickly grabbed the defibrillator and set about restarting Oliver's heart. It took her about twenty seconds, but it felt like two lifetimes. Not wanting to lose a moment, they made sure that Oliver was properly sedated and began to patch up all of his internal injuries.

Oliver flat lined two more times during the surgery. The first time, John was checking a growing bruise that was quite obviously blood pooling in the boy's lower thigh. This time, it took forty-two seconds to revive Oliver. The second time, John was elbows deep in abdominal organs. There was blood splattered on his face from where a rib punctured a lung. When John had moved to repair the lung, the excess blood squirted out. He hadn't had time to even figure out how that was even possible. He pulled back as Andrea grabbed the defibrillator again and attempted to revive the boy, covered in a child's blood and watching for ten minutes when he finally stops her and called the time of death.

The mother was a wreck when he came out. She stood, hopefully, with tears in her eyes. John braced himself, and then said, "I am so sorry. We tried everything that we could-"

Oliver's mother wailed as he told her what happened. He apologized and told her that if she wanted to see her son, he could take her to the Morgue. He led her robotically down to the bottom floor where he left her to say goodbye to her child. He cleaned himself up, changed his clothes, and proceeded to make his way home.

When he got in, Sherlock was in his armchair by the fire. Sherlock looked up and smiled at him, but his face fell as John began to crumble. He led his boyfriend over to the couch, where he folded him into his arms as John began to sob. Sherlock didn't need John to tell him what had happened – he could read it all – but he let John tell him everything that had happened through his tears. Once he was finished, he continued to wail into Sherlock's chest and shake uncontrollably. He clutched Sherlock as if he was a lifeline, keeping him from sinking.

At this particular point in their relationship, Sherlock was still relatively new to the idea of expressing emotions and sentiment. He had never been good at sentiment. He was at a loss for what to do other than holding John in his arms and rocking gently back and forth while cooing softly in John's ear. He knew that John needed comfort, but wasn't sure how else to comfort him.

Then the idea struck Sherlock. Every time he had John cuddled, he felt an emotion that made him feel content and like he was being warmed from his core out to the very tips of his extremities. Based on the data he had collected, this was what one should feel like after successfully being comforted. So he shifted himself so John was in between his legs and he stretched them out as best he could along the length of the couch. He shifted John so he was still in the fetal position, but he was leaning on Sherlock's chest and was cocooned by his lanky legs. He then began to rub the pads of his fingers in small circles up and down John's back and the arm that wasn't pinned between the two of them. Sherlock continued to whisper comforting words into John's ear and pressed kisses to his soft hair until John's cries turned into soft whimpers and his breathing evened out.

Before Sherlock knew it, he had lulled John to sleep. He smiled into his hair and continued his ministrations until he was certain that John was in a deep sleep. He gently lifted the smaller man up and brought him to their bedroom where he set him down on the bed and removed all of his clothes except for his underwear. Sherlock then proceeded to strip down to his underwear and climb into bed. He folded himself around John and the doctor relaxed into him.

When he woke up the next morning, John was disoriented. He remembered being in Sherlock's lap and crying a lot. He didn't recall getting into bed. Sherlock was clutching onto him as if he was afraid he'd slip away. He must have carried him there.

John smiled. Sherlock had probably never comforted anyone like that in his life. Where had he learned-

Oh.

John's smile grew, and he turned over to face his boyfriend. Sherlock stirred a bit at this, drawing John in a bit closer and slowly opening his eyes. John quickly pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered, "Thank you for what you did last night."

Sherlock lightly kissed him on the lips and responded, "I learned from the best. Do you feel better?"

"A bit," John replied. "I might need the same treatment a little later on today."

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to smile. He pulled John onto him so his head was on his sternum and their arms were wrapped around each other. Sherlock pressed another kiss onto the top of John's head and whispered, "I think that can be arranged."

**A/N: ****I own nothing. Apologies to ACD and Moftiss for butchering perfect characters.**


End file.
